


Persona

by ivanolix



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: Canon - TV, F/M, Het, Pre-Canon, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-14
Updated: 2010-02-14
Packaged: 2017-10-24 12:18:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/263396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivanolix/pseuds/ivanolix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They've always had rituals that mean more than they seem, even before the attacks</p>
            </blockquote>





	Persona

The press and their hundreds of microphones and questions had them tied up for way too long, so by the time Sam and Jean finally escaped the chaotic chatter and got in the locker room, it was already steamy and empty with wet towels flopped all over. Not that they cared, having passed the gauntlet of fans on the way back.

“Do I even need to ask?” Sam called over to her shower stall, as they bared everything and tossed uniforms off to the far bench, not caring where exactly they landed.

“Definitely lucky tonight,” Jean confirmed, that familiar settled sound in her tone. “Face like a god, not too clingy.”

“Nice,” Sam said, stripping bare at last and getting under the water.

The showers cascaded down, cleansing sweat and grime and just a bit of dried blood.

“Yours?” Jean asked over the hum of the water.

“Hot.” Sam shrugged even though he knew she probably wasn’t looking. “Quiet, but not crazy serious.”

“Damn, it’s just too easy,” Jean said dryly.

Sam glanced down at his body, noted that there were only a few bruises after tonight’s tournament. That left the option open for frakking with light. All the C-bucs were used to living with bruises, but the one-night paramours after each game got freaked when they were dark and numerous...that was what the romantic shadow-light trope was for. Especially when it came to Jean and Sue-Shaun and the other women, so Sam had been told at many an after-game rundown (before Coach got there).

“Oh, come on!” Jean growled at her shower. “T—need the soap.”

He tossed a bar over to her, finishing up his quick cleaning and not bothering with a towel. It wasn’t like they ever minded him looking a bit damp and scruffy, as long as he smelled clean but not too clean.

Sam found his and Jean’s after-game uniforms in a pile by the door, slightly rumpled from the team that had gone before. They weren’t exactly comfortable for evening wear, but nights like these it was all about the persona. He tossed Jean’s onto the bench by her shower, and slid his on.

“Not an idiot, right?” he asked, modeling his hasty dressing by swinging his arms out as Jean walked out of her stall without a towel.

“No more than usual,” she grunted under her breath.

Sam was always amazed at how women could so easily slip on bras; it always took disproportional effort to get them off when one was in the heat of the moment. He waited the few seconds it took for her to slip into the C-bucs shirt and pants and pull her damp hair out of the way. He always waited for Jean, always did the walk-out with her. Not just for the persona, their teamwork that had all the mags speculating wildly. It turned out that not all of the persona was for fun and for show.

“Hair, up or down?” she asked, giving him a brief glimpse at both options.

“Up,” he answered, nodding.

She whipped her hair into a ponytail. It was slightly off center, several strands out of place, but when she looked back at him there was a look in her eyes and a smirk hidden at the corner of her firm mouth that made her look on fire. “We gonna bet on who gets home the latest tomorrow morning?”

“Why judge thorough successes?” Sam asked with a grin, waving his hand as he grabbed a few things and stuffed them in his pockets.

“Damn, it should be harder work, being such hot stuff,” Jean commented as she picked up a small bag.

They paused at the door, the barrier just barely holding back the sound of excited fans, including two that were waiting just for them. Jean held her hand down, Sam gave her a low five, and they grinned. It was off to enjoy the life of a media star.

***

The sounds of the camp faded disturbingly at night. His guards never fooled around at their posts, his people all slunk to beds with fear still hiding behind their eyes. Even after months of this resistance, this running and fighting for its own sake, they still _cared_ so much for their lives.

Sam had long given up the hope of surviving out the year; he almost hated his former self for having it, for thinking that maybe human ingenuity would win against robot conformity and their resistance would work. He’d watched too many movies in pre-Cylon life. Too, too many movies.

He’d seen too many people go the way of Jean, too. Not just giving up hope in a real success, but giving up hope in even the illusion of success. Sam could still smile tightly when one of their bombs blew and skinjobs went flying into pieces; it seemed like Jean’s bare smirks were only for everyone else’s benefit. She was still at his side, still leading with him, still keeping their insane band together—but Sam could live in the moment and he wasn’t sure she could.

Sam walked into the high school, down the unused hallways towards the gear room. He stripped out of his weapon belt, keeping only the sidearm. The quiet peeved him, but one way to clear his mind was sleep. It would always be louder in the morning, full of the bustle of resistance, and he could forget that it sounded like hiding at night.

“Tired?”

He looked back, saw Jean at the door, arms loosely crossed over her chest.

“Hard to tell anymore,” he said.

“Then don’t sleep,” she said, walking in and pushing the stray red hairs away from her face. “I need you.”

“What is it?” He wasn’t quite able to see her face in the dim moonlight streaming through the high windows, but he recognized the tone, and it wasn’t the iron-hard one she’d used so often recently.

“I know it’s been a while,” she said, a sigh inherent in the words as she dropped her gun belt alongside his on the makeshift rack. “But I just can’t...go without anymore.”

He breathed out, knew what she meant. The moonlight struck the curve of her face, and he remembered what it looked like when things were good, when sometimes they’d turn to each other to find someone who wasn’t a groupie and who knew a little of what they liked. It hadn’t happened that often, but it had been good.

Now... “You know how it is,” Jean said, filling the silence. “You can’t just go to other people, not with how frakked up everyone is. Hell, I wouldn’t want them coming needy to me. But you and me, T, I was hoping we could make it work.”

“Yeah, Jean,” Sam said in a low tone, reaching out his hand to touch the familiar curve of her shoulder. They had to lead, and leading meant giving up and staying separate, at least in the persona they presented. But here they could take the persona off.

“Good,” Jean said, and reached up to kiss him, lips softer than he would have expected.

Sam held her for a second, then bent his knees, pulling her down with him so that they almost sat, already tangling in each other’s arms. “Missed you,” he admitted, feeling the need now that he acknowledged it, brushing his nose against her breasts beneath her shirt.

“Know the feeling,” she answered, winding her arms around his neck, breathing in deeply. “The world ended, but some things stayed the same.” She pulled up his face to hers, the lines in her face disappearing for a second, making plain to Sam that he’d been wrong and she could live in the moment. “You’re still hot stuff.”

Sam would have grinned back then—this time, he just kissed her. Kissed her for a thousand different memories full of far too many reasons, all of which pointed to what mattered now, that they could drop the persona and just be in this moment. Jean fit snugly into his arms, as they let all the grief and stress of war just slip off their backs along with their clothes, and melded neatly together.

They weren’t perfect. They weren’t meant to be. They didn’t even want the latter. But they wanted the heat of their bodies for now, and they wanted to know that they’d still be Sam-and-Jean-leaders-of-the-resistance to everyone else tomorrow. Moments like these were what some friendships were built for.


End file.
